


January 19th

by GoodJanet



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Goodbyes, Holding Hands, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:30:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9393692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodJanet/pseuds/GoodJanet
Summary: There's one thing Joe has always wanted to do in the VP office...“That makes it look like we’re married,” Barack points out.“It does, doesn’t it?”





	

It’s not something he planned. Not consciously, at least.

It starts when Joe tells him he’s got a surprise for him in the VP office. He turns to Michelle who gives him a sad smile and tells him to go on. With her approval, he follows Joe down familiar, if emptier, halls. It’s cliché, but he figures he could find his way to Joe's office blindfolded and walking backwards.

“What’ve you got for me, Joe?” he asks once they’re inside. 

“Some payback for that surprise you pulled on me the other day.”

Joe walks over to his desk--it’s still his desk, even though it’s empty—and Barack follows, curiosity getting the better of him. There is a hollow sound as Joe opens the biggest drawer that echoes in the bare room.

“What is it, Joe?” Barack asks again.

Joe bends down to retrieve the item, and when he stands up tall again, he’s holding a bottle and two glasses. Barack quickly scans the label and lets out a low whistle.

“I’ve been saving it for a long time. I thought we’d be drinking this tonight in celebration, but I—Well, it didn’t seem right to let it go to waste. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

Barack doesn’t say anything as Joe unscrews the cap and generously fills their glasses. He doesn’t think he _could_ say anything as a lump forms in his throat. Joe hands him a glass. It’s heavy in his hand. The crystal catches the light coming from the ceiling and Joe’s desk.

“A toast,” Joe says, raising his glass a fraction higher. “To a good run.”

“To a good run,” Barack repeats.

Their glasses clink, and it’s the only sound in the whole office besides the quietly whooshing fan overhead. They take a sip, and it burns in a way Barack finds comforting. Everything has been tough to swallow lately. It fit with the theme of the past few months.

Joe puts his glass down first and comes around to the front of the desk to stand with the president. He watches him stare vacantly into the office, taking a drink every once in a while and trying to hide a grimace. Joe puts a hand on his shoulder, and it pulls Barack back into the room.

“You were drifting again,” Joe says.

“I guess I’ve been doing that a lot lately, huh?”

Joe doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t really have to. His face, much like his big heart, has always been an open book. Barack takes another drink, thinks over what he’s going to say next and how to say it. Careful and gentle and composed as always.

“Can you blame me?”

“Not a bit,” Joe counters with a speed that comes from eight years of loyalty.

Barack laughs. It’s tinged with sadness at the edges, but it’s a laugh nonetheless, and Joe will take what he can get. He feels his heart swell as his president turns to look at him. Barack puts his (nearly empty) glass down, and the heavy bottom clacks against the wood. Joe’s joins his.

“You know what I’ve always wanted to do?” Joe asks.

“I'll tell you right now, I can't hitchhike to Canada with you.”

“No, I’m serious! I’ve always wanted to carve my initials into this desk. I've always thought it would be a nice gesture."

“That’s defacing federal property,” Barack says.

“Like you wouldn’t give me a pardon.”

Barack laughs again—and it’s lighter this time—and drinks the remaining liquid in his glass.

“Of course I would. Are you telling me this because you’ve already done it?”

“No, I’m telling you now so you can do it with me.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Hey, you’re still the president, regardless of what anyone else thinks.”

“You're know something I can do though?" Joe's head clocks to the side with interest. "I love you, Joe.”

It’s the third time Barack's used his first name tonight. (Who’s counting?) And the sentiment makes his cheeks get hot with pride and a little bit of shame because he’s just a kid from Scranton who still isn’t sure how he ended up on this kid’s radar.

“Gee, I—You know, you and I have. I mean—”

Joe knows he’s known for his big mouth, but suddenly he can’t make it work right, and Barack is looking at him with something like pride and something like love and something like admiration, and it makes all the words in the world feel silly and inadequate.

Barack puts him out of his misery with a hand over his on the edge of his desk. Joe feels his rambling words die softly in his mouth as peace settles over him. Who needs words when their partnership has already spoken volumes?

“If we’re gonna do this, it’s gotta be small,” Barack says after a long, thoughtful moment where Joe was sure Barack was going to suggest that they leave.

“Yeah? I mean, yeah, sure. Of course! You mean it?”

“I don’t know what we’re gonna use to carve it though.”

“I was a Boy Scout when I was a kid. I don’t go anywhere without my pocket knife,” he says, producing said knife from his jacket pocket.

“They let you in here with that thing?” Barack asks, incredulous.

Joe shrugs. He’s never really thought about it before.

“Come on. I already have a section picked out. Let’s take out the top drawer and carve into the back corner here,” Joe says before Barack could change his mind.

The two men end up lying on their backs under the desk looking up at the underbelly of the desk. Once they put the drawer back in place, it would be impossible for anyone to see unless that person had the sudden urge to lie on the floor, and Joe figured his successor didn’t really seem the type.

_B.O. + J.B._

“That makes it look like we’re married,” Barack points out.

“It does, doesn’t it?”

Joe laughs, imaging how Pence would feel about that, as he pockets his knife. He sobers up when Barack takes his hand again. It’s a tight squeeze to do so, but Joe doesn’t mind. There’s honestly nowhere he’d rather be.

Joe’s not sure how long they lie there in his empty office, hands pressed together, but eventually, Joe’s phone buzzes in his pocket with a text from Jill wondering where he’d gone. 

“I gotta go." 

“Me too,” the president says.

He swallows over a lump in his throat and pockets his phone again. Barack squeezes his hand before letting go and wriggling his way out. Barack helps him up. Joe puts the drawer back into place, sealing their secret inside until some other vice president in the distant future got the same idea, while Barack grabbed the bottle and glasses to leave with the secret service agent when they left.

As he always has, Joe follows Barack out. It’s not until the secret service member locks the door behind them that he realizes it’s the last time he’ll ever get to be here.

“It’s alright, Joe,” Barack says when he notices his vice president had lagged behind. “Come on. I think Jill and Michelle picked out an ice cream cake for dessert tonight.”

Joe moves to catch up with his president then, for what more could he possibly ask for than this?


End file.
